In thy Dark Streets, Shineth
by paradiso
Summary: Stella/Mac. The first year without her.


_a/n_: _Sorry it's a couple days late. I've been completely bogged down recently, it was a struggle to get this completed, but I'm glad I finally did. Merry Christmas to you all~_

**In Thy Dark Streets, Shineth **

_Careful,_ Stella thinks to herself as she steps off the edge of the concrete to cross over to the next block, the slush creating a plane of limited traction between her heel and the road.

It is a courageous consumer who decides to brave Fifth Avenue on December 23rd, especially in the year 2001, when the world's largest construction site attracts thousands of tourists with their brand spanking new Nikons to clog the streets, hoping to snag the perfect shot. The rush is unfamiliar to her, but she embraces it anyhow. It's not the first year she has thought of buying presents for other people, but it _is_ the first year she's only thought of doing so at the very last minute.

She picks up her Secret Santa gift – for Nathan, from ballistics, something small and impersonal, and she lingers in front of Macy's, remembering suddenly that she still has to pick something up for Hawkes. Her arms laden with bags, she struggles to the curb and attempts to hail a taxi. There is a brief tap on her shoulder, and it speaks volumes to her when she turns and sees the face.

"City of eight million," Stella shakes her head at the steadily approaching taxi as an afterthought, "And it figures that I run into Mac Taylor."

"Good evening, Santa," comes the cool reply, "Sorry about the cab."

"That's okay," she sighs, and doesn't even realize that her bags have changed hands, and suddenly its him that's bearing the weight of her sentimentality, "Hey."

"Least I can do," he hesitates, "Are you busy?"

"I just finished shopping," but then Hawkes crosses her mind and she frowns complacently,

"Well, except for one thing... I guess it can wait."

It can't really. Unless she wants to be at Wal-Mart at three in the morning, rummaging through the aftermath of the Christmas rush and standing in line for an hour to pay for a defeated toque with matching gloves. But it's the first time in a few months that Mac has approached her with the prospect of doing something outside of work, and it's not a chance she would pass up for a whole world of Christmas presents.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, "You want to come up to the apartment with me? You haven't seen it yet."

It's uncharacteristic of him, she decides, but she's known before he even asked the question, that whatever it was he was offering, she was definitely going to say 'yes'. There's no way to pry him out of his shell when he wants to brood inside of it, for days, weeks, months – and she figures that if she isn't there for him now, she might be scratching away at that shell with her fingernails for years to no avail.

"Sure," she tries to tug at one of the bags, but he won't have any of that today.

"Let's go then, it's a few blocks."

She looks around, almost bewildered. It makes no sense that he would choose such an environment within which to plant himself. It's a crazy neighbourhood, one which truly never sleeps. The apartments are ridiculously priced, even for his six-digit salary. But as they walk past St. Michael's Church, she knows why he'd chosen to move here after the death of his wife. Because of the death of his wife.

The elevator ride is boring and uncomfortable. She panics momentarily, because it feels like a week has passed before they finally reach his floor, which would've meant that she would've missed Christmas, and all those gifts would be worth half of their original price by now. On the bright side, it also would've meant that any pathetic gift she decided to get Sheldon Hawkes would also probably be a fraction of its original price. But alas, it is still December 23rd when they step out of the elevator.

The apartment is not at all like what she'd originally expected. It's still spotless, the way he has always kept things, but there's something sterile about it as well. So clean, the walls almost look stale, and she can feel the stiff carpet beneath her boots, which reminds her to take them off. Mac has already disappeared, and the gifts sitting at the edge of the closet almost make her wonder if he's gone forever.

She turns the corner, looks into the living room and decides that, _we have a problem._

"Hey," he says simply, and picks up a red ornament from where it had fallen.

What startles her more than that, is that he wastes no time in hanging it on the most elaborate Christmas tree she's ever seen in any apartment. It's so cheery, so gold and red and green, so bright and symbolic, she almost wants to hold her gun to his head and ask, "Who the fuck are _you_?"

Because no way in _hell_, is Mac Taylor the festive type. He has always managed a few strained seasons greetings to his co-workers, and he tries not to twitch when the lab techs go crazy with tinsel and paper snowflakes all over the lab. He draws the line when he sees them hanging mistletoe at the top of his doorframe, but he is generally... tolerant, of all the holiday cheer. However, in no way shape or form has he ever embraced it, not even while Claire was alive. Or so, Stella likes to believe. Thinking otherwise forces her to see them together, curled up on the red loveseat that disappeared sometime after September, laughing and cuddling and kissing and...

She shakes her head. It is much easier to believe that Mac Taylor is simply the emotionless rock that he really only became after the towers fell. As opposed to believing that he had some great epiphany that told him to stop moping, get off his sorry ass and get into the spirit of Christmas.

"Nice tree," Stella squeaks and looks mournfully at her feet, which are clad in green-and-red striped socks. Of course.

"Thanks," he looks up, mouth open, trying to focus, "I haven't got the star up yet."

"Need some help?"

"There's a box, by the dining table."

It's labeled _X-MAS_, and Stella creeps towards it. She catches a glimpse of lace as she nears the medium-sized cardboard box, and notes the particles of dust that line its edges. She is afraid to open it, fearing the ghosts of Christmas Past that may arise. But she nudges through it anyways, resisting the urge to cover her eyes with one hand as she does so. He's already dug through half of it, and the next layer of forgotten Christmas things lies beneath a few red napkins.

She pulls out a small object, wrapped in old newspaper. It feels hollow and fragile in her hands, and as she begins to unwrap it, she sees a small dash of brilliance dance across its surface.

The crackling paper draws his attention, "Not that one, keep looking."

She sets it down with a disappointed sigh and continues her search. The box looks small from the outside, but inside it seems bottomless. Every layer she clears reveals another. Ornaments upon ornaments - she doesn't know how much time has passed before she decides to give up.

"Couldn't find it. Is there something else I can do?"

"Hm," he actually stops what he's doing (fiddling with the switch for the balcony lights) and looks at her with much more concern written on his face than the situation deserves, "That's odd. I suppose you could... oh, just sit down. You're supposed to be my guest."

She takes care not to reply with timely, "What kind of joke is this?" and does as she is told.

Taking a seat on the floor, she realizes that it has been a long time since she's sat this way with him, or at all. Cross-legged in an almost juvenile way. Through Mac's bronze curtains, she can just barely make out the glow of the soft, golden lights, flickering ever so often, like her desire to find out just what is going on, what has Mac acting so strangely.

The lights flicker off, _I've never seen him decorate before._

Then on again, blurring as the wind rustles through them, _But I guess it's none of my business._

Off again, _Not even when Claire would rag on him._

On, _Maybe this is some sort of tribute?_

Off, _Jeez, Stella. A 'tribute'? Grow a backbone, and get off the floor and ask him._

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

"Mac, you're freaking me out."

She expects a silence, or a smart remark on his behalf. Anything to remind her that she's not sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the apartment of some stranger.

"I'm sorry," he says simply, looking out the window.

The lights stay off, and suddenly she wants to die, "Wait... what? What are you sorry for?"

"For all of this."

She thinks calmly for a moment. Maybe this is one of those maddening days, when he's had the nerve to make a snide remark over a morning coffee, one which sends her over the edge after three hours of sleep. Maybe, she'd been giving him the silent treatment all day, maybe by now she's just forgotten that she's angry, and he's invented this entire scheme to continue distracting her.

"Hey," she gets to her feet and tries not to trip over herself as she approaches him, "Don't worry about it. Let's just... um, I'll make the coffee."

He says nothing. She can barely make out a subtle movement in his neck, as though he's nodding. But it's not quite clear, and all she can do now is hurry out of the room and hope to sink into the ground once she reaches the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the biomolecules holding her innards together decide to stay intact. She pulls out the drawer beneath his oven and pulls out a small, steel pot. After tying her hair back, she lifts it over the sink and holds it suspended beneath the tap, shaking her head as she does so.

The stove takes an eternity to heat up, and she figures it will be a least another few years before the water starts to boil. As she stands there, staring at it out of spite, when suddenly a question hits her square in the face, _What am I doing here?_

She looks around herself and realizes how easy it is to become a part of his dwelling. Everything is automatic for her. She knows where everything is, almost like it's her own home. Except that her apartment is filled with shadows and corners and here... with Mac in the next room, and a pot of water on the stove (he's never owned a coffee machine), here, it's different.

"Watched pots don't boil," comes his voice from somewhere behind her right shoulder.

She turns her head slightly and looks at him. She tries not to take all of him in with that one single glance and fails.

Miserably.

Of course, at that very moment, he decides to run a firm, rippled hand through his jet black hair. He decides to roll his shoulders, attempting to alleviate the stiffness that has developed there and won't go away no matter what he does. He decides to look at her with his depthless blue eyes, while their light flickers somewhere in the distance, somewhere out of reach for her. Maybe out of reach for him too.

This is the Mac Taylor she knows, or the Mac Taylor she has come to know, and the Mac Taylor who is becoming more and more just a name to her with every passing day: Mac Taylor, Mac Taylor.

And meanwhile, Stella Bonasera watches. Observes every day as he does his job as though it's the most mundane, boring thing he's ever done. Like it's the one occupation he's always hoped he'd never end up with. He's disinterested in the cases, disconnected from the city, and is distanced, distanced from her, from himself.

Her eyes prickle. This is the Mac Taylor she's come to know, and can't love any less.

"Maybe I should go," she says, brushing past him, and hurrying to the door.

He says nothing, barely watches her as she pulls on her boots and re-buttons her coat. She glances from the presents on the floor to the full-out storm that's suddenly materialized. Shooting him a quick look that she's not sure he picks up, she decides to leave the presents on the floor. He'll have them tomorrow anyways.

"Sorry, Stella," he says, and it's the most apologetic, truthful thing she's ever heard.

Opening the door and struggling to look away, she replies, "Goodnight, Mac."

Then she's gone and the only evidence of her having been there was ten red gift bags and a pot of gurgling water.

--

The next morning, Stella is roused by a gentle tap on the door. At least, she _thinks_ she hears a tapping noise. Almost a knock, but not quite. It's too shaky, too inconsistent. Hesitant and confident at the same time, which means that it can only belong to one person. She dashes out of her makeshift bed - a coat and a quilt flung over the couch - and scrambles to the door, falling out of her robe and knocking over an artificial plant as she does so, "Mac?"

But there's no one there, and she frowns to herself, _I'm losing it._

A bell chimes in the distance, and she almost shakes it off as her imagination playing tricks on her. But it's ten in the morning, and her shift doesn't start until two, so she gives in and decides to humor herself. The carpet of the hallway is scratchy, something that she hasn't taken the time to notice since she's moved in. But then, it is the first time she's ever stepped out in the hallway barefoot.

It's also the first time she's ever turned to see a melancholy Mac Taylor, a few feet away in front of the elevator doors with a vacant look on his face, at least the first time he has done so in _her_ apartment building.

"Hello Stella," he acknowledges her immediately, as though he can feel her stare the moment it comes to rest upon him.

She almost asks the obvious question, _What are you doing here?_ But she's almost certain that she'll get a shrug as a reply. He's standing there, under a cracked ceiling lamp. Calm and complacent as though he's always been here, as though it is his place to be here. Any passerby would have agreed that there is nothing out-of-the-ordinary about this solemn, middle-aged man. Even in his crisp, black coat (an autumn coat, she notes, inappropriate for the kind of weather they've been having recently) he seems to blend in against the hard beige wallpaper. These observations persuade her to contradict her better judgment.

"Want to come in?" she asks, and he's close to her in a single bound.

"Get inside," he says, and it's a tone she's not used to hearing. A low, gravelly sound, an octave away from what he usually sounds like in the lab when he's giving his placid orders.

She likes to believe that it's out of plain respect that she obeys his commands with such diligence, even when outside of the workplace. In truth she is dumbfounded by her swift turn, and even more so by the hands the come up to her bare shoulders and give her a gentle push towards the door, left open in her haste.

"I dropped the gifts off in your office," he says immediately once they return to her apartment, shutting the door behind them as he does so.

"Thanks," she brings one hand up to rub her elbow, suddenly aware of her attire, "I should go change."

She heads off hurriedly to the bedroom, eager to escape his eyes, all too aware of the gooseflesh slowly consuming every inch of her skin exposed to his eyes. This confuses her, it is as though something as changed between them, and it's brought her to _this_. Some sort of juvenile shyness, accompanied by a tingling anticipating that she is absolutely revolted by. _Stella, come on. It's _Mac_, _she thinks, stepping into her room. She wants to avoid raiding her closet, and trying to whip up some incredible ensemble. That would be too close to admitting the truth...

In the end, she grabs an old sweatshirt and pulls it on over her flimsy tank top, all while attempting to restrain her frizzy curls within the meager confines of a green hair band.

She's terrified by the way his gaze lingers when he returns to the room, _God, Mac. You're killing me here._ And as much as she tries to convince herself that she can't stand the way he's looking at her now, she can't help but be disappointed when he does look away, nonchalance winning over his features. Her heart continues beating wildly however, and she tries again: this time, to convince herself that three months is too short a time within which to fall in love with your best friend. No – these feelings have been here since before September, and before Claire. The guilt eases in one part of her, and thickens in another.

"Why'd you go into the lab anyways?" she walks past him and into the kitchenette as though she _hasn't_ just come to one of the most staggering conclusions of her life, "Don't you have the week off?"

"Not anymore. I took a couple shifts; I'll be in tomorrow."

_Christmas_, it strikes her, "You'll be in the lab?"

"Yes. With you."

_Our first Christmas_, it's awful, she shakes her head in self-disgust and starts to fumble with the beginnings of a lousy cup of coffee, _Our first Christmas together._

She can't get these thoughts out of her head. Christmas was a holiday for people like the old Mac Taylor, people with close friends and family. She'd given up any close friends she'd ever acquired in college and high school when she decided to dedicate her life to the lab – and family had never been an option. You can't choose family; you either luck out, or you don't. So every Christmas, Stella Bonasera goes to work, and tomorrow is no different. It earns her a pleasant monetary bonus every year, and she usually blows more than half of it during Boxing Week. Then there's the _other_ bonus. Which is _not_ having to lay on her couch, watching made-for-television Christmas movies with a bottle of ice wine and a wealth of despair.

Sensing his presence at the doorframe, her spoon slows in the dark liquid, and she holds back a sigh, "Mac, if you don't mind me asking... are you all right?"

She doesn't want to look at him, to do so would to be to gauge his mood, and she's become rather good at that over the past few years. She doesn't want to have to look at him and see that same old shell over his eyes – that would mean that she'd have to have the strength to stop herself from going any further. She would have to have to willpower to not push the matter, and just tell herself to give him some space.

She can't do that, not now, not here in her apartment. Not when she's given him so much space already to think about his feelings and his dead wife, and his broken future, that if she takes another step away it might mean plummeting off the edge of a cliff, and falling down into an abyss with no hopes of ever climbing back to him, (though there's no doubt that she would try anyhow) .

"No," he almost smirks, "I guess I'm not."

She almost brings the coffee to her lips, but instead, turns around to face him again, "It's okay."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, it's okay that you're not okay."

"Right."

It's no surprise to her that the conversation is awkward. The air around them grows stale from a lack of use, and she knows that sooner or later the moment will rot, and she will have lost her chance, maybe forever.

"I wish I could fix this for you," she says brokenly, "I wish _you_ could fix this for you. I wish someone or something could fix this for you... I wish this was fixed."

"I... got that."

"Oh."

"I mean, after the first time you said it."

"Right," she thinks back to the last time she got a good reaction out of him, and realizes that it's only when she takes flying leaps of faith and risks hitting every last one of his nerves that she can ever get anywhere, "Claire," she whispers, as though a single syllable will reach him.

It did the first time, obviously, but she'd been alive then.

"I miss her," his eyes flicker a moment, like the Christmas lights on his balcony, "Do you remember when you told me how much you miss your parents?"

"Mac," her face falls, "This isn't like that. I never even knew my parents."

"That's just it though. This is exactly like that. It was three months ago Stella, three months but it feels like forever that I've been waking up without her. How can that even _be_? I always thought I'd never be able to go on without her, but if it feels like forever that she hasn't been here, then maybe she never was?"

A pained anger that is uncharacteristic of her crosses her face, "Don't say that. Of course she existed... exists. She was your wife, she loved you. Just because you can't-"

"Spare me," he mutters, ungrateful with good reason. He isn't one for pity.

"What would you have me do then, Mac Taylor?" she's still angry, mostly at herself when her throat starts to hurt, "Would you have me let you forget all about her?"

"Would you rather let me rot like this, every year?"

"It's the _first_ year, for God's sake Mac, did you really think you could just wake up the next morning and that hole inside of you would be miraculously filled?" she tears up, because three months later the gaping hole inside of her is widening, just like his.

He's silent. Not because she's shaking with emotion now and that's something that he hadn't expected, no, more because this is _exactly_ what he imagined would happened the first time he ever confronted the memory of his wife. He knew it would be her, Stella, standing in front of him, taking rapid, shallow breathes and with her eyes, begging him not to become what she had. Wanting more than anything, for him to stay home on Christmas Day, and to live and breathe and not dwell upon all those things that could have, _should _have been.

"You just need to relax," she sighs, trying to regulate her heartbeat and breathing, "You just need to... to just, think, about all of this."

"I'm sorry, Stella," he looks at her, "Sorry to put you through this."

"No, it's important. I'm... glad."

"You don't look glad."

The corners of her lips twitch upwards, just for him, "Silly, that's because it's not really _supposed_ to be a happy thing."

"What?"

"Talking about Claire."

"No."

"Right. But it _is_ an important thing."

"Then I might consider trying again."

She does not reply directly, choosing instead to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. In that moment, a fleeting sentiment of anticipation sparks between them, and she can only hope that they'll be together to see where it leads someday. It is after all, only the first year.

Their first year.

--

Satisfied with the day, in more ways that one, Stella leans back into her chair and almost enjoys finishing up her last bit of paperwork. She gently turns the corner of each page upwards and signs with a flourish, on the line next to the words _First Officer._

Before he leaves, Sheldon Hawkes pokes his head into the room and smirks when he sees her sitting there, "Anything else you want me to do for you?"

"Not in particular," she replies, her hand pausing so she can look up at him, "Unless you want to sit here and sign away for me."

"As First Officer? That's quite the promotion. I'm just the ME," he jokes right back and then waves at her, "Thanks for the watch, Stella. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too, Sheldon," she observes the young man as he leaves the room with an extra skip in his step, unusual for a single man with no one to spend Christmas with, but a pleasing sight nonetheless.

Her second visitor that evening, takes care not to disappoint either, "You're still here."

"Did you think I'd get sloppy with the paperwork," she replies, "Good to see you, Mac."

"How'd it go today?" and she's thrilled because he took her advice, and actually has to ask.

"It went okay. Hawkes was a big help, Aiden popped in once, didn't see Danny though. Last I heard, he was headed home for the holidays. Good for him."

"Indeed."

"Take a seat."

He smirks, "This is my office, Stella."

"Come on Mac," she gestures outdoors, "It's Christmas, lighten up."

Chuckling softly, he pulls up a chair to the desk, opposite her, "It's good to be here, even on Christmas."

"It is..." she motions to the stack of paper next to her, "_Now_, anyways. Crime doesn't stop to celebrate the holidays, but I'm pretty much done for tonight."

In the elevator, he speaks of things far away from their world. He jokes and laughs and is human again for the first time while moving between the first and fifteenth floors of the building with her.

"Share a taxi with me?" he asks, and the logical side of her chats incessantly to her brain in response.

_We live on opposite sides of town._

Her pocket is heavy with a small, black box contained inside of it. She wraps her fingers around it and an answer comes to mind. She doesn't worry about what it will imply, or how it's going to affect her evening, or if it means that she really will have a Christmas with Mac Taylor. He looks to the street before them, flooded with rows and rows of yellow taxis, his image flickers in the light from above and ahead and everywhere.

She's the only constant here, he realizes, as she opens her mouth and without stammering, without wavering, and never once does she flicker out of his view.

"Yes."

**fin**


End file.
